


All I Want For Christmas Is You.

by RT Fice (RT_Fice)



Category: Dumbo (2019), Dumbo (live action)
Genre: Enemies, F/M, Lust, Lust at First Sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21852931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RT_Fice/pseuds/RT%20Fice
Summary: It's December 2019 in New York City.  V.A. Vandevere, the CEO, Founder and Owner of VAV Enterprises, VAV Motion Pictures and Dreamland Inc. confronts what he thinks is a beggar standing at the gates of his theme park.  She's Milly Farrier, protesting wild animal performances at Dreamland, as well as any future performances of the alleged flying baby elephant, Dumbo.  The heat of confrontation masks another, deeper heat, that neither is yet willing to admit.This is a one-off, but I may develop it into a longer story.
Relationships: Milly Farrier/V. A. Vandevere
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	All I Want For Christmas Is You.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arianatheangelworld](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=arianatheangelworld).



" _That's_ what I'm talking about," V.A. Vandevere hissed.

The CEO, Owner and Founder of VAV Enterprises LLC, VAV Motion Pictures, and Dreamland Inc. slid the one-way tinted back window of his 2020 Bentley Flying Spur down two inches, just enough to hear the music from the hidden P.A. system playing over the walkway to the entrance of his theme park.

Sotheby, his personal assistant and what passed for a butler in the twenty-first century, winced at the song from the driver's seat. To the entertainment mogul's left, Neils Skellig, his bodyguard and Head of Security, grimaced as if bamboo skewers were being hammered under his fingernails.

"When the fuck was that song made?" When away from the public and irritated, V.A. Vandevere forgot his Harvard accent -- a place he'd never stepped foot in until he was given an Honorary Doctorate after he donated a pile to their Media School -- and used the working-class accent, and vulgarities, he'd been infected with from his father.

"1989," Sotheby said.

"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?"

"You sound like Vandevere Senior, sir."

That was a sure way to snap the man out of it. "How did a thirty-year-old song get on Dreamland's holiday playlist?"

"It's big with the kids," said Skellig.

V.A. and Sotheby's heads slowly turned to stare at the tall man.

"I saw it in _Variety_ ," said Skellig.

The stares continued.

"I read the trades. I'm _also_ in Show Business."

"I don't give a fuck what the 'kids' are into," stated V.A. "It goes." He'd been on his way to his retreat in Montana for a weekend with some idiotic blonde Playmate, Miss October -- "I'm an Aquarius!" _*giggle*_ ," but she was a trained pro in the sack -- when he'd heard this blasted song on the P.A. The advantage of owning his own jet was he could put travel on hold until he dealt with this. Casually dressed in expensive denim jeans with a matching jacket, cobalt-blue denim shirt, and short black boots, he didn't want to be recognized by the long ticket line near Dreamland's entrance, so with a press of a button the window closed.

His concentration while calling the Power Tower was disturbed by snide laughter outside his car, which was idling on the park side of the entrance. Vandevere peered through the smoky glass.

A figure, perhaps five foot three, wearing a red hoodie, black Chucks, and torn jeans that were too short, stood on the sidewalk with its back to the entrance and facing the people coming to it, holding what looked to be a hand-made sign.

"Damn, another homeless asshole." He seethed at Skellig, "Where the hell's Dreamland Security?"

"That one must have just shown up." Skellig, who loathed being reprimanded, was furious about this laxity.

His boss watched people speaking in harsh tones as they passed the person, who remained immobile. Too many were seeing this. The bum had to be removed immediately. "Fuck it," said Vandevere, and he flung open his door.

"Sir!" cried Sotheby.

"Boss!" said Skellig, truly startled.

Vandevere's breath huffed in white clouds as he quickly strode toward the beggar. No one recognized him, but his body language told them that, whoever he was, he was in a bad mood and meant business.

"Hey! _You!_ " yelled Vandevere as he approached. "You better be blind, because there's a sign on this gate that says 'No Soliciting'--"

The person turned and looked up at him.

Vandevere froze.

Her enormous eyes were vibrantly green, framed by thick, natural black lashes. Her full lips would have been the envy of Venus. Her cheeks were round and high. Her skin was the color of warm caramel.

When she lifted her head the red hood fell away. A luxuriant mass of dark chestnut curls spilled halfway down her back, winking with gold and black highlights in the sunlight. Those incredible lips parted slightly as she lowered her sign. V.A.'s wide eyes traveled down, seeing her hoodie was two sizes too small and faded from use; possibly she'd grown out of it. The zipper couldn't close over her high, full, round bust, revealing a faded t-shirt that read _The Medici Bros. Family Circus._

"You're V.A. Vandevere." Her voice was as soft and warm as he imagined her skin was. Her puff of breath rose and mingled with his.

Stunned, his mouth opened, then shut.

Her eyes narrowed. She held her sign in front of his face.

**WILD ANIMALS SHOULD BE WILD,** it declared in red.

Vandevere's mind lurched. "PETA?"

The girl, who had to be a senior in high school or a freshman in college, lowered the sign. "You don't recognize this?" A glance down indicated her t-shirt.

After a second he blurted, "The alleged flying elephant."

The girl tilted her head, her mouth judgemental. "If he's ' _alleged_ ; why did you buy him?"

"So no one else could if it's true." Vandevere shook his head, trying to clear it. Focusing, he stated, "The deal was just finalized a few days ago. How the hell do _you_ know about it?"

"Holt Farrier is my father."

The flush of heat that'd run through him on first seeing her was weakening enough for his mind to work. "The bareback rider?"

"He's the best trick shot in America." Her voice had pride, but not arrogance.

Her lack of being impressed or intimidated by him irked the billionaire. He pushed back. "Who rides _horses_."

" _Domestic_ horses."

V.A.'s mouth slid sideways. "Dumbo -- that's its name? -- is domestic."

The girls' nostrils flared. "Elephants are wild."

"They've been working with humans for millennia."

"They're still _wild_."

"He was born in captivity."

"He deserves to be returned to _the wild_ with his mother."

" _Where_ in the wild?" Vandevere smirked. "You have any idea how few places are left for Asian elephants in their natural environment? And if they were born in captivity, they'd have no idea how to cope."

"Mrs. Jumbo, his mother, was _born_ wild. She'd teach him."

"She's been here _how_ long?"

Her wonderfully arched eyebrows crouched together. "Elephants never forget."

Vandevere was strangely thrilled by this engagement. He pressed, "There're poachers, predators, disease. You have any idea how much harder and shorter their lives would be? Ever heard of nasal bots, darling?" The word just popped out of him. He managed not to display his shock.

The girl, however, didn't conceal her indignation. "Don't call me 'darling.' And at least they'd be _free_."

"I'd rather live in a gilded cage instead of freedom and a horrible death from nasal bots."

"I'm not surprised, considering you _live_ in one."

" _Ouch_." V.A. tried not to laugh with delight. Why should he be delighted? The girl was a pain. "What do _you_ do? Knife-throwing?"

Her eyes dropped. She shifted her stance. "I don't want people staring at me." She quickly looked up at him again. "I'm going to be a scientist."

"You're in college?"

Her face reddened.

Vandevere recognized the face of financial struggle from years of seeing it in the mirror. His smirk evaporated.

"I treat my animals well." His voice was still firm, but not as immovable.

"I never said you don't." Her tone, unless he imagined it, had more give.

"Are you as vehement with your _own_ circus?"

The girl's beautiful mouth twitched. "I've had discussions with Mr. Medici."

Amusement seeped into Vandevere's voice. "' _Discussions?_ '"

"I've mentioned it to him," she specified, resentfully.

The billionaire noted that she was trembling. No wonder, with what she was wearing. "How long did you plan to hold your protest? In the minus two degree Fahrenheit wind chill?"

Her chin shot up. "I calculate that, on this day of the week, at this time, in this weather, with Christmas and Hanukkah only a week away, on average over a hundred people will pass me in an hour and read this sign."

"What percentage will snicker and yell at you?"

The girl's eyes darkened. "There are also people driving by, to and from the parking lot, who'll read my sign."

"And what's your estimation for how long it will take until you have frostbite? You've grown up spending winter in Florida, am I correct? I doubt you're acclimatized to this weather."

She swallowed. Vandevere took it as a sign that the cold had already deeply encroached.

"Boss." Skellig glared through the lowered window. His large, black eyes shifted from the girl to the man.

Vandevere well knew what his enforcer was suggesting. "No need, Mr. Skellig. Our little scientist is moving along now."

"OH, thank you for the condescension!" she snapped.

"Ditto," he replied. "Does your father know about this?"

"I hardly need his permission, I'm eighteen!" She cringed and silently swore, evidently having not intended to give her age.

Not able to resist, because frustration was making her exquisite face shine, he teased, "You're _Joe_ Farrier, are you?"

"You're hilarious," she countered.

"Short for Josephine? Josephina?"

" _Milly_."

"Well, Miss Milly Farrier, the ink isn't quite dry on my contract with the Medici circus, so though I had you brought up from Sarasota to New York, you're not officially covered by the company health insurance. Judging by your ears and nose," he had the sudden urge to warm the tip of her nose with his lips, then her cheeks, and cleavage.... He inhaled deeply and quickly, "You'll need a visit to the infirmary if you keep up this Little Match Girl routine."

"The Little Match Girl was selling. I'm informing."

"You're opining. You can do that on a blog, warm, at home."

Milly's expression soured. " _Home_ is the motel you set us up in, thank you very much. With no connectivity."

"Then we both want the deal to be set and sealed and rock solid, so you can move into your _new_ quarters, don't we?"

"Do you talk to your kids this way?"

Vandevere frowned. A girl this whip-smart had surely read his bio long before she ever came to New York. The dig didn't sting, since he'd never wanted kids. But the contempt in those miraculous eyes did.

" _Sorry_." Milly smiled, for the first time, but it was triumphant. "I meant, do you talk to your _girlfriends_ this way?"

"I don't have to," he purred. " _They're_ pleasant." He raised his voice but kept his eyes locked on the challenge in hers. "Mr. Skellig, if you please."

In one fluid movement Dreamland's Head of Security came from the car, deftly snatched Milly Farrier's sign, tore it into fours, stuffed it into the entrance's recycling bin, and returned to the car.

The girl and the CEO didn't break eye contact.

"I can make another," she declared stiffly.

"Go for it," parried Vandevere.

" _Sir._ " Sotheby had lowered the passenger side window.

Milly Farrier turned on her heel and marched down the sidewalk.

" **Sir** ," Sotheby insisted.

Tiny snowflakes began to fall. They lit on her mane and sparkled in the cold sunshine. Vandevere couldn't move until she was lost from sight in the crowd coming to play in his Dreamland.

The second he was in the Bentley Vandevere called the Power Tower. "I want a new goddamn track on the P.A. Victorian Christmas. No more of this pop shit."

"But Mr. Vandevere," squeaked the engineer who ran the P.A., "your own studies have shown that no one wants to hear anything that old. They want _pep_."

_How does this kid even **know** the word 'pep?'_ "All right! Just nothing with Mariah Carey!" V.A. hung up.

"Miss Lynne has called repeatedly," said Sotheby.

Distracted, Vandevere barked, "Who?"

"Miss October."

"Christ." The prospect of fairly adventurous sex intermittent with shopping sprees in Helena and long monologues comparing NFL players' dicks suddenly became insupportable. It dawned on the man that he'd been standing in the subzero temperature and hadn't felt cold at all. "Cancel it."

"She's already in Montana."

Vandevere waved his hand impatiently. "Send her to Sun Valley for two days."

"Miss Lynne doesn't ski."

"I fucking know she doesn't ski. But she loves to buy the outfits. Just... _do it_."

"And you'll be where?" Skellig's face had actually formed an expression. It might have passed for shock or even wary concern.

"Here. There're loose ends to the whole Medici thing."

"You're not expected to see the elephant's first flight until after Ms. Marchant comes from Paris and meets with Mr. Farrier."

Colette. How had he forgotten about _her?_ The prospect of trying to convince her to ride the animal, if it did indeed fly, grated on him. She'd put up a fight, and she was one hell of a negotiator.

He took his annoyance out on his two closest employees. "What, is my voice not working? _Hello?_ Drive me back to the _Tower_."

"Yes, sir," said Sotheby, with confused resignation.

* * *

The bus to Times Square was packed with people hefting huge bags from famous New York City stores Milly couldn't believe they could afford. _That's what credit cards are for_ , she thought. She wondered what it was like to be able to buy new things. She was freezing. Longingly she eyed the thick, puffy coats of the people around her.

The woman seated next to her was complaining on her phone about a shortage of something or other. Milly looked out the window.

_His eyes._

She'd seen V.A. Vandevere on the cover of the Italian _Vogue_ someone had left in the Winter Quarter's cafeteria, back when everyone wanted to learn more about the guy who was promising them a new, better life. Unlike today, in the photo shoot he wore a sharp Italian suit and silk tie under a wool coat that reached past his knees like a cape. They'd airbrushed out the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and touched up the hair at his temples with brown.

 _Why? I read his hair turned silver when he was in his thirties. It looks wonderful, especially with those blue eyes--_ Milly caught herself. Most blue eyes looked cold to her. But his... They'd glowed like opals. Did they always?

Had he _actually_ been radiating heat as he stood over her with those eyes, or had the heat emanated from within her?

The fullness of his lips surprised her. And how fit he was. "Fifty is the new thirty," some stupid Bowflex commercial proclaimed. When Milly thought about fifty-year-old men they were soft-bodied, slumped, balding wrecks who came to the circus for a few hour's escape from reality.

 _Well. **He's** balding_, she reminded herself. _But..._. But it wasn't the same. Why wasn't it?

The young woman squirmed in her seat. The woman next to her glared, warning Milly not to encroach on her territory.

With a shuddering sigh Milly confided to herself, because there was no one else she could. _All right. So he's hot. So he's hotter than any boy that's ever asked me out. Or any man who's leered at me. He's still a corporate asshole. I don't trust him to treat Dumbo the way he should be._

No one had taken a video of Dumbo because, with Max's archaic rules about "protecting th' magic an' integrity of th' performances," smartphones were checked at the Big Top's entrance. This may or may not have anything to do with the dwindling number of their audience.

When she stepped off the bus at Times Square to switch to the subway, Milly heard the song coming from a taxi that was playing when the "Genius of Dreamland" had confronted her. She was too young to have heard it when it premiered. Originally she hadn't paid it any attention, any more than she did other Christmas pop songs. But the lyrics.....

"V.A. Vandevere is an arrogant, sexist, condescending bastard," Milly openly declared, hoping people heard her.

Everyone was in too much of a holiday rush to notice she existed.

Stuffing her bare hands in her hoodie's pockets, Milly hurried to the subway entrance in flustered frustration.

* * *

V.A. Vandevere sat, quite alone, in his apartment in the heights of the Power Tower, watching the increasing snowflakes drift and swirl by its huge, round window. In the rarefied air above his empire, he drank Kentucky bourbon, and wondered why he couldn't stop listening to the song's confounded lyrics on his laptop.  
  


_I don't want a lot for Christmas_  
_There is just one thing I need_  
_I don't care about the presents_  
_Underneath the Christmas tree_  
_I just want you for my own_  
_More than you could ever know_  
_Make my wish come true, oh  
All I want for Christmas is you_

**The End?**

**Author's Note:**

> I'd been considering doing a contemporary version of "Baby, Mine," but wasn't sure how to start it. arianatheangelworld on Tumblr sent me an Ask about Mariah Carey's song "All I Want For Christmas Is You" and a Plot Bunny took off running.
> 
> So this fic is for her: arianatheangelworld.tumblr.com


End file.
